Do You Want to be Forgotten?

Originally published on: March 10th, 2007

It’s sad how people are forgotten.

How many of you actually know things about your great grandparents? What was their full name? What was their favourite colour? How many brothers and sisters did they have? When was their birthday?

My guess is: not a lot, if any.

It’s sad how the second generation from now will know nothing about you other than the fact that you’re related to them somehow; how the third will know even less. Is that what you want to be? Some person’s great grandparent who nobody knows the life of? Nothing but a name and date on a family tree? A number in a population count? A face in a yearbook?

Forgotten?

Nobody will know about the time you lay next to your overdosed girlfriend/boyfriend, holding their hand and crying your eyes out until you fell asleep, wishing they’d be okay. Nobody will know about the time you stood up to the biggest jerk in school even though you were as scared as hell. Nobody will know about all your horrible stepfathers that beat your mother day after day just because he could. Nobody will know about the great things you’ve done simply because they weren’t important enough for society.

You will be forgotten.

I read a comic a few years ago. It was talking about how only the interesting people who do interesting things are remembered by a fairly decent amount of people. I sure as hell am not interesting, so, why bother living when nothing we do now matters to anyone but ourselves or possibly a few others? Even worse when it doesn’t even matter to us.

It made me want to do something that will change the world. I longed to become that person who could make people better themselves. I wanted to be interesting. I wanted to do interesting things. I wanted to be remembered. I listened to Mahatma Ghandi; I wanted to “be the change I wanted to see in the world”.

Then, I realized that there are so many other people out there just like me, if not better than. What makes me any more significant than them?

Nothing.

Like I said… sad.

Having said that, however, there are lots of people who have done great things that remain forgotten. Nobody knows who they are. And that’s why biographies are written; to remind people. But don’t get discouraged. I said before that there is nothing that makes me any better than the “so many people just like me.” It also means that you are like these people, and you have just as much power to change society as the next person; you could be the one who earns the right to be remembered. There is no such thing as equal results; only equal opportunity. Everyone has the same chance; it’s up to you how you use yours.

Do you want to be remembered?

What’s stopping you?

Do something amazing.

Are You Ready?

Originally published on: August 17th, 2007

We sit here so obliviously. Breathing, just like everyone else, and worrying about the same minuscule things. Does my hair look alright? What if I fail my exams? Why isn’t my chicken rice ready yet? Does this have to be so expensive? Why is the internet so slow?

People say it all the time. It’s in movies; song lyrics; poetry. So, why do we never listen?

Or is it just me?

It is said in a variety of ways – live life to the fullest; live each day as if it were your last; life is short. But no matter what exact words are said, they all come to the same conclusion (That conclusion, I hope you can come to by yourself soon enough).

And life… Well, it’s annoying.

Why does it have to be so fragile? It irritates me knowing that life can be taken away so easily without even the thought of a second chance; that I could very likely die tomorrow. In fact, any one of you could.

I know, people die every day. And we’ve probably thought about it once or twice, but the thought got brushed away as soon as something more “interesting” captured our attention; like that new XBox game, for example. Or the latest SonyEricsson.

Sure, it’s there at the back of our minds somewhere, but really, do we actually understand what death is? Do you realise that once a person’s gone, they’re not going to come back? That you’ll never get to see her smile again, hear her laugh, or tell her how much she means to you? Or maybe you’ll spend your moping days wishing you’d have spent more time getting to know her better, only to be further let down with the knowledge that you won’t be able to anymore. You can only regret.

I’m sorry; I, myself, have just been reacquainted with our good friend Death, and I was ashamed when I found myself acting as if I’d thought it would never come. Well, it did. And the truth is, the Grim Reaper is going to pass by many more times. Every person you meet, or see, (or smell, if you’re into that) whether you know them or not, is going to be given a visit.

So, I come to you bearing one question. Are you ready? Ready to accept that there are worse things to worry about than looking good, or getting into a good college?

‘Cause I wasn’t. And look what happened to me.

And sure, maybe there is a great, magical, wonderful place people go when they die. It’s just hard to recognise when we spend so much time living in today’s world.

So, life is tough. It really sucks sometimes, and your frustration/depression level can get so high you want to scream in life’s face and just tell it to back off, and though it can get to the point where you’re not sure if anything will help or not, I can only say, “Life is fragile,” and hope you (and me) know/remember what to do with that information.

How do people forget?

:[ He was only 16.

“Life is both sad and solemn. We are let into a wonderful world, we meet one another here, greet each other—and wander together for a brief moment. Then we lose each other and disappear as suddenly and unreasonably as we arrived.” – Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder

You alright?

Hello internet, it looks like it is time for an update!

I will jump right in to it then.

I guess the main point I want to make is that I realise I hate Rant-filled empty box because it is hosted by Friendster, and I hate that I have to log onto Friendster (A social network website I gave up on a long time ago) to publish a post, and that was greatly reflected in the frequency of my posts (None). The only reason I didn’t get rid of it sooner is because I liked what I had to say, and I didn’t really have an outlet for that because Broken Smile is more personal messages, and this thing here is just writings.

So, anyway, this website thing you are currently reading will now include more serious articles I write. But before any of that can happen, I shall publish the few pieces that were previously on Rant-filled empty box and still reflect how I feel, because emotions are cool that way.

That is basically all I wanted to say. I didn’t want to alarm you when you started seeing unusual posts written by a 15-year-old me. Oh, look at that, 200 words.

The Snake

The snake slides under my skin, into my nails and out of my nose.
It travels within, I feel its scales and its body like a hose.
It bites sometimes, and the venom does burn but I am still like a stone.
As sour as limes, forever will it churn, itching my blood, flesh and bone.

Oh, snake, why can you not keep still, must you twist and turn like so?
But yes, it is your maker’s will, for you have sinned, you have let go.

Talk of Miracles and Things

Dim light fills the darkest spaces,
and I see flickering beauty ahead.

The heart that was pulled from your chest now
lies clutched in your hands,
it is bruised and dripping blood
into a big, wet, crimson puddle.

Many times, I have tried to
fit it back into its place -
into that gaping hole that
flaps flesh in the breeze.
Many times I have tried to
heal those terrifying wounds
and keep you forever free from
the pain you never earned.

But of those many times I tried,
each time I only failed.
The cancer in me spread, yet
it was only you who could remove it.
And your wounds grew even more.
I had no wings to fly, yet
it was only you who held me high.
And your wounds grew even more.

And so, many more times I shall try again,
and many more times I may fail.
Your wounds may grow even more,
but justice will eventually prevail.

It is one thing to repeat a kindness
but to give what you never had…

That is nothing short of a miracle.
Everyday, you are a miracle.

The Darkest Shade of Blue

The weight of your body seemed to mean nothing to me as I held it, flaccid, in my arms. Kneeling on the ground, I looked at this beautiful, flimsy pile of flesh that didn’t even vaguely resemble the magnificent body that it truly was, as it slowly and steadily turned blue.

To my horror, I noticed that it wasn’t only the your skin that was changing colour – the snakebite seemed to be also changing the colour of your eyes, and I studied them with more tentativeness than I have studied anything before, and with the kind of fervour I probably should have used when I was in college, because they were so yellow and so shiny. They looked like balls of glass, like your eyes had been replaced by solid marbles, the kind I played with as a child, and yet, as they stared back at me, it was in these two eyes of yours that I saw the only sign of the humanity you had left in you.

Hearing a horrible laughter that seemed to come from a million voices, I looked around the room I was in only to discover that it was filled with them – all these laughing faces, and I saw these all around me. Just laughing. Mocking me. I didn’t understand. So I did the only thing I knew how to do and I shouted. Again and again. At the top of my lungs, hoping this would change the way these people were looking at me. “Why won’t you help her?!” I yelled, letting the words bounce of the walls of the dark, empty room I had no recollection of entering.

I swear I could hear my heart break as I saw your skin turn a darker shade of blue and as your eyes pulled at my soul, like you were behind these glittery bright things, banging on the glass cage that confined you, begging for mercy.

Finally, two people emerged from the darkness, both dressed in white. They were horrifically similar in appearance though one was distinctly a female and the other, a male. As they approached, they eerily looked me in the eye and then swiftly turned their heads towards you.

“Are you ready?” one of them asked, the female, and to my astonishment, you replied.

“Yes.”

Darker blue.

With that one word, you caused my entire world to crumble. I had so many questions I would have liked answered, “Yes?” “Ready for what?” “What do you mean?”, and yet at the back of my mind, way, way in the back, where I keep everything I wish didn’t exist, I knew what was going on. I could feel my heart beating much faster than it should have been, and I shook my head in disbelief.

“Yes? Yes what? What is it, Jospehine?”

But your glistening eyes just stared through me. You weren’t even looking at me anymore.

Still, these mysterious people in white pushed on:

“Are you ready?”

And still, this beautiful person I loved more than anything and anyone in the world answered them:

“Yes. “

Darker blue.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. “No. No! She’s not ready!”

I hadn’t noticed until I looked at my hands, which seemed tiny in this big room, but I was trembling violently, and there was nothing I could do to calm myself down.

Shaking my head, I screamed, “Josephine! Don’t go! Please don’t go!” But of course, you didn’t reply, just looked on past me at the wall standing behind me.

I heard your last heartbeat.

I felt your last breath.

I saw you behind those so very yellow glass eyes waving goodbye.

And there it was – the moment my life ended, when I was standing in the middle of that big, great room I would never recognise, with these people I didn’t know, as the menacing laughter continued, watching you turn the darkest shade of blue.

Eyes

Your fingers were cold, and I didn’t understand what it meant. I searched for meaning in your eyes; they always told me what wasn’t said and it made me smile, but this time, something was wrong. I looked into your eyes, begging to see what I wanted to see; what I’d seen so many times before: reassurance; truth; love. Instead, I saw nothing. Just a suffocating blank darkness – nothing. And it scared me.

I couldn’t stay there any longer. I couldn’t hold your hand for another second. It felt almost frozen against the concrete ground and I was afraid I’d snap your pretty fingers off if I squeezed them any tighter. But most of all, I couldn’t stand to stare into those empty eyes one more time. I knew that if I remained in that room, I’d upset myself even more. Uncountable thoughts filled my mind; it was all just too much, so I did the only thing I could and left.

As I sat there alone in the dark, the hurt was unbearable. I thought about the happiness and sorrow we’d been through together, but it only added to my pain. I considered crying my eyes out, and wailing out in agony, but the notion of it only made me angry at the possibility of me being that weak, so I locked those thoughts up inside and pretended there was nothing there to begin with.

Meaning, Escaped

The hands of time grasp,
and they grasp so tight,
so tight around the throat.
The struggle beats down,
beats down,
beats down.
The soul, so sad, so sensitive,
so very fragile and cold.
it leaves the frigid body,
it escapes, it sings.
The mind collapses,
and time, it dances,
though it meant anything but harm,
no harm,
no harm.
It meant no harm.

A Commentary

It’s sad.
How a person can steal another person’s soul,
torture it,
stretch it to it’s utmost limits and then some.
How a human being can have the will,
the indecency
to cause such pain and torment to another.
It is utterly and absolutely
horrifying.
To discover the true nature of our existance
and realize the degree of evil we can commit,
enough to cause the total damnation of one’s wellbeing,
the destruction that could tear you
to pieces.
How someone can treat another
so badly,
and in a way that even they themselves would not wish upon their individual
understanding of
life.
I simply cannot understand it.
Are we destined to fail?
Destined to abolish,
to eradicate
any kind of hope left in the world?

Weakness or Strength?

Anger.
The fiery demon that eats your soul,
sends you spiraling,
makes you want to explode,
destroying yourself and everything else,
biting at your insides,
urging you to shout.
Fight.
Scream.
Ward off whoever tries to “help”,
whoever pretends to care,
giving an absolutely appropriate cause
to slide that blade cross his throat,
to lodge that screwdriver into his head,
to pull that trigger with no regret,
leaving little room for guilt,
and no reason for remorse.
Or apologies.
But me?

I’m sorry.